Thursday, 7 July 2011

Portrait of a boy from Fayum, panel painting (encaustic on wood), second half of 2nd century: image by Ejdzej, 2002 (National Museum, Warsaw)

I've been smoking steadily all morningif I stop the roses will embrace methey'll choke me with thorns and fallen petalsthey grow crookedly, each with the same rose colourthey gaze, expecting to see someone go by; no one goes by.Behind the smoke of my pipe I watch themscentless on their weary stems.In the other life a woman said to me: 'You can touch this hand,and this rose is yours, it's yours, you can take itnow or later, whenever you like'.

I go down the steps smoking still,and the roses follow me down excitedand in their manner there's something of that voiceat the root of a cry, there where one starts shouting'mother' or 'help'or the small white cries of love.

It's a small white garden full of rosesa few square yards descending with meas I go down the steps, without the sky;and her aunt would say to her: 'Antigone, you forgot your lessons today,at your age I never wore corsets, not in my time.'Her aunt was a pitiful creature: veins in relief,wrinkles all round her ears, a nose ready to die; but her words were always full of prudence.One day I saw her touching Antigone's breastlike a small child stealing an apple.

Is it possible that I'll meet the old woman now as I go down?She said to me as I left: 'Who knows when we''ll meet again?'And then I read of her death in the newspapersof Antigone's marriage and the marriage of Antigone's daughterwithout the steps coming to an end or my tobaccowhich leaves on my lips the taste of a haunted shipwith a mermaid crucified to the wheel while she was still beautiful.